


Mutual Ignorance

by endofthyme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, M/M, Misunderstandings, Rain, Revelations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endofthyme/pseuds/endofthyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can't figure out what possessed Sherlock to kiss him. He's lost and confused and Sherlock won't provide any answers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Do You Need Me?

**Author's Note:**

> This was first written and published on FFN in Dec2010/Jan2011. I've only just joined Archive of Our Own, so I'll be moving my (admittedly sparse) fanworks over here. :) Enjoy.

Sherlock wasn't letting him get a single word in edgewise. Not for the first time during his stint as a flatmate to the insufferable genius, John Watson wondered if the man actually had need of oxygen. He finally gave up his attempt to cut in on Sherlock's explanation of what they, or rather he, knew about the case thus far, instead turning his head to stare out of the window of the cab and wonder what was going on.

It had been a fairly dull morning until he'd ventured into the kitchen. When he'd turned around to ask Sherlock why in the name of all things good and holy was there a strange purple substance coating the inside of the microwave and whether said substance was dangerous, he'd found Sherlock much closer than he had been a few moments before, closer than even his usual indifference towards the concept of personal space could explain. Then, Sherlock had leaned in and pressed his lips against John's.

It was over before John even noticed that it had begun, although that wasn't actually saying much. In fact, in the time that it had taken for him to realize what had transpired, Sherlock had pulled on his coat, wound his scarf around his neck, declared that there was a case that required their immediate attention, and charged down the stairs, telling John to stop gaping and come along.

And, so, here he was, off to a crime scene in a cab with a man who wouldn't cease his monologue – which had at some point become an extended diatribe against Scotland Yard's collective stupidity – long enough to let John ask what the bloody hell just happened. When he did pause, it was always when John would need to take a breath to speak, and he was always speaking again by the time John's lungs were full enough to say anything. And he wasn't even looking in John's direction, instead glaring zealously at the back of the cabbie's head. As they neared their destination, Sherlock was still talking, though he'd by then resorted to emphatically listing synonyms for idiocy, quite a few of which may or may not have been actual words as John had certainly never heard of them before.

As soon as the cab halted, half a block from the scene, Sherlock catapulted out with a distinctly relieved exclamation of "Finally!" The beleaguered cabbie seemed to have similar sentiments, mumbling "Chatty, your friend, isn't he?" as John pulled a few notes from his pocket to pay the fare.

"Sometimes," John truthfully responded, smiling apologetically. These bursts of talkativity were rare, though no more atypical than was his typical behavior, if that made any sense at all. Still, Sherlock was far more likely to pursue a complete lack of vocal communication than such an excess.

John watched the cab drive off, delaying for as long as possible. He wasn't too keen to be there, to be honest. If Sherlock wouldn't let him speak, he was no more useful than the skull would be, and perhaps less so, which was certainly a galling notion. He sighed to himself and started off towards the gathered police vehicles. He still had a question to ask.

A question which, he realized, he couldn't possibly ask at the moment. Both Anderson and Donovan were in attendance, pretending to be working while actually just watching Sherlock like a pair of hawks – no, more like vultures – for any sign of him making a mistake or just doing something unconventional. If John mentioned whatever-that-was, God only knew how they would respond. And, upon thinking of how they _could_ respond, John figured that he should try to avoid being charged with assault for punching Anderson in the face, for Lestrade's sake if nothing else. The man had quite enough on his plate dealing with Sherlock's rogue ways without John stepping out of line as well. He knew the D.I. relied on him to keep Sherlock within certain bounds, inasmuch as anyone could. Crossing those bounds himself would be near inexcusable.

As he watched Sherlock prowl around, observing and deducing, John almost convinced himself that what he thought had happened earlier hadn't really happened at all, or at least not the way he remembered. Perhaps it was because he hadn't slept particularly well the previous night – even though he'd had much worse nights without becoming delusional. Or, perhaps it was just that Sherlock had spotted a morsel of food on his lip, decided not to let it go to waste, and, since his hands were probably doused in all sorts of chemicals, hadn't used his fingers to grab it – even though Sherlock never ate when on a case and never really cared about waste, and John, having been in the middle of preparing breakfast when he discovered the purple stuff in the microwave, couldn't have had food on his lip as he had not yet eaten, a fact which his stomach was now rather loudly making known, sending several looks with varied levels of amusement, disgust, and sympathy in his direction. Sherlock, predictably, was the only person in the room who acknowledged neither his existence nor his empty stomach's complaint.

John awkwardly cleared his throat, approaching the consulting detective, who was kneeling beside the corpse of a young man in his twenties. It had been some form of poison that killed him and the body was otherwise completely unmarked, so there was no way for John's medical expertise to help here – not without the lab results on the poison, which the Met were already getting, if they were even half as competent as Sherlock alleged during the cab ride to the crime scene. He stopped next to Sherlock – who hadn't turned to face him and seemed strangely tense, making John wonder vaguely if his utter disregard for what he considered 'transport' was finally catching up to him or if it was something else – and leaned down to his ear, softly asking, "Sherlock, do you need me?"

Just as he'd finished speaking, Sherlock stiffened, but his gaze didn't move from the man's corpse. Though, if John looked closely, he could see that Sherlock wasn't looking at the body so much as at the floor just beyond it. He assumed that Sherlock had figured something out about the case until he heard the man, in a careful, deliberate tone, question, "Why do you ask?"

Surprised at the inquiry, John blinked a few times. "Er… because I'm a bit, well, peckish, I suppose," he responded, keeping his voice low. He felt self-conscious worrying about being hungry while a poor man was dead, and if the scene had been gruesome, he was confident he would have lost his appetite – but it wasn't, not at all, and he didn't. "I thought I might step out and get a bite to eat."

The side of Sherlock's mouth twitched, but not into a smile or even a smirk. He looked annoyed, and John figured that must mean that Sherlock wanted him to remain. "If you need me, I can stay. I won't starve for a while yet," he said, trying to reassure the detective that he would be fine either way. In fact, he was flattered to think he was useful to his friend, and wouldn't really mind going hungry for a while for the sake of having a purpose.

"I _don't_ need you," Sherlock declared suddenly and vehemently, startling John and everyone else in the room. When those words registered in John's mind, a painful mixture of hurt and resignation coursed through him. Naturally Sherlock would be fine whether John was present or not; he didn't know why he'd ever thought differently.

He swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat and mumbled, "Then, I'll be going," just before turning around and fleeing with whatever dignity he could muster. He could feel the eyes of the gathered police officers on his back, though he doubted Sherlock had bothered to pay any attention to his exit.

Fresh air and a quick meal at the nearest restaurant he could find helped John gather his thoughts. He reminded himself that Sherlock was quite possibly the most socially inept person he had ever met, except when being socially adept would help coax someone into revealing information or otherwise helping with his work. Sherlock probably didn't mean that he didn't need John in general; he just meant that he wasn't needed in this particular case, which was exactly what John himself thought. Still, the way he'd so strongly insisted that he didn't need John, as though he wanted to make clear something else – something deeper – as well, was… troubling.

As he stepped out of the restaurant, he was struck by a wave of indecision. Should he go back to the crime scene or just go home? He hadn't told Sherlock that he'd be returning, and it would be extremely embarrassing to go back only to find that Sherlock had left without him, especially considering what had just happened. He could just imagine the pitying looks that he would get, reminiscent of how Sally Donovan had looked at him when Sherlock abandoned him on that first case – when he'd first been drawn into this insane, ridiculous, wonderful lifestyle – except so much more cutting, because John should _know_ how Sherlock is by now. It would only underscore the fact that John was so completely unnecessary and absolutely everyone knew it, even him.

John's sense of self-worth had taken enough of a battering for one day, and it was only just past noon. He hailed a cab to return to Baker Street.

The skies were murky and gray.

It looked like rain.


	2. Where Are You?

The unnecessarily long words on the page were starting to blur together, and either the editor of the book was a blind imbecile or John had just reread the same paragraph approximately six times, gathering less meaning from it every subsequent time. He was not entirely sure what the story was about, but he was absolutely sure that he did not care; his mood was still especially dark from the slighting he'd taken earlier that day.

Slightly more than an hour had passed since John had arrived back at 221B, trudged through the door and plodded up the stairs to the flat's living room, where he had promptly situated himself on the settee with an intensely mind-numbing novel and a cup of almost-warm tea and hadn't moved since, when he heard from below the slam of the front door and the rhythmic sound of shoes hitting steps. He set aside the book, not bothering to mark the page, and expectantly turned his head towards the closed door. The footsteps halted just outside the room and the doorknob began to, slowly and tentatively, turn. John's brow furrowed at that; as a general rule, Sherlock Holmes was not one that might be called hesitant, but who else could it be? "Sherlock?" he called out.

The only response that he received was the metallic noise of a doorknob suddenly being released to its usual, unturned position and the generally nonmetallic noise of a person hurriedly making his way towards Sherlock's room. "Sherlock?" John said again, hastening to follow, only to see Sherlock's door shut with a finality only accentuated by the click of its lock. "Sherlock?" He felt like the idiot Sherlock continually told him he was, saying the same thing repeatedly like some sort of colourful, tropical bird.

Frowning, John rapped his knuckles against the door. "If you don't say anything, I'm going to assume something's horribly wrong and break down the door," he declared, and, after a moment of silence, he felt the need to add, "It wouldn't take any effort at all, you know," in case there were any doubts as to his capability.

He waited another few seconds before stepping back and readying himself to make good his threat, at which point a slightly muffled but quite audibly irritated voice that was unmistakably Sherlock's grumbled from the other side of the wooden portal, "Leave me alone."

As that effectively convinced John that it was really Sherlock who had entered the flat, he had a couple of rather awkward questions to ask his wayward flatmate, now that – unlike earlier at the crime scene, no, he didn't want to think of what had happened at the crime scene, what Sherlock had told him – they had some privacy. "Sherlock, about this morning—"

He was abruptly interrupted by the discordant screech of a bow against strings. He tried once more, only getting as far as "Sherlock—" before an unremittingly tumultuous cacophony erupted from within the locked room.

"Sherlock Holmes!" he shouted in vain, attempting to make himself heard above the din. It was a shame that he didn't know Sherlock's middle name, he mused; if he did, he could have used his flatmate's full name as though John were a disgruntled parent admonishing an unruly child, although he doubted it would have helped matters in the least.

Threatening to overwhelm him was a rising tide of indignation at being so pointedly disregarded, as well as some other bitter, unfathomable emotion. Sherlock didn't care to listen to a word the doctor said unless it was singing the detective's praises, it seemed. Breathing out a harsh, exasperated sigh, John resolved to leave Sherlock to his own devices and wait until an opportunity to broach the subject arose. He settled himself in front of the telly – finding the page he left off on in that monotonous novel was not worth the effort and, anyways, he could remember nothing about it – to watch a crime drama that paled in comparison to the real thing.

The opportunity to speak with his flatmate never came; the door to Sherlock's room remained resolutely shut when John, unaccountably exhausted, traipsed upstairs to his own bedroom to sleep.

As he drifted off into oblivion, he thought of warm lips against his own.

It was the incessant pattering of raindrops outside that gradually dragged John Watson back into a state of consciousness, far preferable to the violent awakenings due to imagined gunfire that had been a fact of his life before meeting Sherlock Holmes, though why being more likely to hear real gunshots made him less likely to imagine them, he couldn't say. After staring blankly at the ceiling for several minutes in a half-asleep stupor, he hauled himself upright, painstakingly remade his bed, and changed into something presentable.

John remembered seeing the clouds the previous day and predicting that it would rain. A glance through the window at the waterlogged cityscape confirmed his suspicion that it had probably been raining for hours, and probably would be raining for hours to come. He stifled a yawn and shuffled downstairs in pursuit of some breakfast.

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, John observed as he put the kettle on and stuck some bread in the toaster, which he had scrupulously checked for loose body parts beforehand. He had, on the way downstairs, entertained some hope that the microwave might have been cleared of whatever that purple substance was, but that hope had been thoroughly crushed when he peered inside. One could not accuse Sherlock of being considerate to others where his bizarre experiments were concerned. He hadn't even bothered to inform John as to whether it was dangerous or not.

Glimpsing the purple substance again brought back to John's sleep-addled mind what had happened the last time he had caught sight of it. He really needed to talk to Sherlock about that, and he couldn't let Sherlock's penchant for unmelodious music sidetrack him this time. Swallowing the last bite of his toast, he steeled himself for the inevitable confrontation and headed for Sherlock's room, as his quarry could be nowhere else in the flat. There was no reply to his knock; he hadn't expected one, but he _had_ expected to find the door securely locked. It wasn't.

Sherlock's bedroom was as chaotically organized as one would expect from him, books and papers and bits of experiments scattered everywhere, although one thing was noticeably absent, Sherlock himself. John didn't know whether to be relieved or annoyed, so he settled on annoyed but appreciative of the temporary respite. He pulled out his phone to send a text to his missing flatmate: _'We need to talk. JW'_

Immediately, the sound of a text message received reverberated through the silent room. Startled, John looked down at the screen of his mobile, but saw nothing there. After a brief search, he found Sherlock's phone sitting abandoned in a half-ajar drawer, his message displayed on its glowing face as well as several other texts, the oldest of which was from hours before. That was suspicious, to say the least; Sherlock was rarely found separate from his phone, even though he needed – no, not needed, not after that little display yesterday, _expected_ – someone else to take it out of his pocket for him on occasion. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson would know something. John headed downstairs, carrying both phones with him.

Their landlady was bustling up the stairs just as John reached the stairwell, exclaiming with her usual liveliness something about the weather and tea. "Good morning, Mrs. Hudson. Have you seen Sherlock?" he asked quickly, not wanting to get diverted by pleasantries. He was worried about Sherlock, which was only natural – the man might have been hanging off the edge of a building for all John knew, and the doctor wouldn't be at all surprised if it turned out that he was.

"No, dear, haven't seen him, is he not in?" prattled the non-housekeeper as she bustled past her tenant and began to tidy up the danger zone that was the living room, "Don't you fret, now, nothing to trouble yourself over, he'll just be dashing about as usual, if I know Sherlock." She didn't wait for a reply, instead opting to vocally lament the deplorable state of the flat – a state which was wholly Sherlock's fault, so John felt no remorse in tuning out her spiel.

Thinking back, Sherlock had been acting rather strangely when he'd returned to 221B the day before, so maybe something had happened while he was working on the case after John left, and if it had, Lestrade might know what. Or, even better, he might know where the missing consulting detective might be. John scrolled through Sherlock's contacts – he didn't have the D.I.'s number on his own phone – and, once he'd located his objective, pressed the call button. He was confronted, after two rings, with an immensely exasperated "Sherlock, I _know_ I've told you this a thousand times. Call me on the _landline_ when I'm working."

John blinked. He'd only seen one number under Lestrade's name, so Sherlock clearly hadn't ever heeded that particular demand. "It's not Sherlock, it's John. Sorry, I didn't know," he contritely told the man. At least, thanks to Lestrade's reaction, he knew that Sherlock probably wasn't with Scotland Yard, though that would have been very reassuring.

"Dr. Watson," Lestrade greeted him, sounding quite placated. "It's no problem. I don't mind, really. I just think I should at least make an effort to get him to follow protocol, even if it never works."

"…Right," John replied, mystified, just as Lestrade went on to ask, "So, what seems to be the problem?"

"I can't find Sherlock. He doesn't have his phone with him, as you can probably tell. I thought you might know where he is," explained John. He shook his head absently at Mrs. Hudson's proffered cup of tea, presumably made from the water he had boiled earlier. She tutted her disapproval but did not persist, setting the heated beverage aside.

"Haven't seen him since yesterday's case," came the not unanticipated response.

"About that. I was wondering what happened after I left. He seemed a bit… off, when he got back," prompted John, the peculiar events of the previous afternoon running through his mind.

There was a short pause, followed by a concurring "He _was_ acting a bit funny."

"Funny how?"

"He was still there an hour after you'd gone, for starters, not telling us anything." That was definitely odd. Sherlock never needed that long to see everything he needed to see – or observe, as he preferred to call it. "Then, he just walked out. I went after him and asked if he'd figured something out about the case, and he looked at me like he'd completely forgotten about it. Then, he charged off again, after announcing sort of impatiently, 'Pocket. Keys. Pub.' We're still trying to figure out what he meant." Confusion, disorientation, slow response time, difficulty focusing – John's medical instincts checked off every symptom he could identify from Lestrade's account and his own observations, and all the while, he cursed himself for not even once suspecting until then that Sherlock might be ill. It sounded increasingly like a concussion or, reluctant as he was to admit it, drug usage. But, he was confident he would have seen the signs; they were especially evident in the eyes, and Sherlock's had been—

Sherlock hadn't looked him in the eyes that entire day. The realization struck him as hard as the bullet that had invalided him back to London. The cab ride, the crime scene, he hadn't even seen Sherlock at all when he'd returned to the flat, the one moment they had looked each other in the eye he'd been, well, quite distracted from close inspection. It shouldn't have taken so long to notice. There should have been other indications. Sherlock couldn't possibly have hidden that from him. But, what other reason could Sherlock have for avoiding eye contact?

The sound of his name in his ear snapped John back into awareness. "Sorry. Um. Did you happen to get a good look at his eyes?" he asked. Lestrade would have had some experience with spotting the evidence of substance abuse, especially considering what John knew of his and Sherlock's history.

"I did," was Lestrade's puzzled reply before he apparently realized what the doctor was getting at and adamantly asserted, "He was clean, John. A bit vacant, yes, but, it was like his mind was somewhere else, not like it wasn't anywhere at all."

John wanted nothing more than to believe that, but knowing that he wanted to believe made it far more difficult to do so. He couldn't help but doubt the D.I.'s word. However, there _was_ still the possibility of a concussion, he firmly reminded himself; Sherlock had told him repeatedly that he shouldn't jump to just any conclusion that presented itself. Sherlock would have had ample opportunity to concuss himself without John's knowledge, and he would most likely have done his utmost to conceal it, out of some strange sense of pride or stubbornness. Of course, he really shouldn't discount the idea of drugs – oh, this train of thought was doing no one any good. He had to find Sherlock.

"Well, if he shows up, call me," John finally said, feeling very pessimistic about the potential of that particular plan.

"I will," Lestrade assured him. "Good luck."

"Thanks." John ended the call, then immediately called Molly Hooper, whose number was also not in his own mobile phone. She mistook him for Sherlock just as Lestrade had, he immediately disavowed her of that notion and asked if she'd seen Sherlock, she said that she hadn't heard from him in a week or so and promised to call if the consulting detective should show up, and then they said their goodbyes. It had been a long shot, but he had tried. Now there was only one thing left to do.

John generally tried to avoid coming into contact with Mycroft Holmes, but this time he felt he had little choice, seeing as Sherlock was probably in need of medical attention, or in some perilous situation, or possibly both simultaneously.

He did have Mycroft's number in his contacts, but Sherlock's phone was still in his hand, so he quickly found the elder Holmes brother's name just under 'Mummy' and warily pressed the call button.

At least Mycroft would probably know that it was John calling, not Sherlock.


	3. Why?

"Ah, John, I was anticipating your call. I must say, I am offended that you would prefer to make inquiries of Miss…" Mycroft Holmes paused, probably glancing at whatever extensive record he had of calls to and from his younger brother's mobile phone, before continuing disdainfully, " _Hooper_ , rather than seek my expert assistance."

John could hear condescension seeping through every syllable that the alleged British government uttered; Sherlock's careless scorn was almost tolerable, perhaps even welcomed, in comparison to Mycroft's affected contemptuousness. No, it wasn't fair to rank them in that manner. Sherlock's was tolerable only because he wouldn't be Sherlock without it, and Mycroft – no, that's not quite right, Mycroft wouldn't be himself without his arrogance either. And they were both fiercely intelligent, enough to aptly consider practically everyone else entirely without wits, so their view of the rest of humanity was perfectly understandable, inasmuch as anything about the two Holmes brothers was understandable. The difference between them was, John supposed, that Sherlock would, on occasion, be pleasantly surprised at how well he kept up with Sherlock's deductions, even at his markedly slower pace, or at some particularly clever ruse a criminal or, from time to time, a victim used. Mycroft never was pleasantly surprised; everything always happened exactly as he wanted or, if not as he wanted, as he predicted. Where Sherlock's derision was like a tap, turned on and off as needed, his brother's was a ceaseless deluge of contempt. "Mycroft. Where's Sherlock?" John addressed the man flatly.

Mycroft parried the doctor's question with one of his own, one that John couldn't ignore. "Wouldn't you rather ask what _condition_ he is in?"

At those words, John's stomach threatened to plummet through the floor to Mrs. Hudson's living room. "What is it? How is he?" he blurted out before his reason had a chance to catch up with his instincts. Mycroft wouldn't sound so – the appropriate adjective escaped him, so he'd have to invent one – Mycroft-like, if Sherlock was in serious danger. John preferred to believe Mycroft's claim that he truly was concerned for his younger brother's well-being, even if he generally showed it in an unconventional way. That he must just be playing on John's propensity to worry about his flatmate wasn't an illogical conjecture.

Mycroft, true to form, waited until the moment after John had realized on his own that Sherlock was fine to reassure him of that fact. "He is not in any immediate danger, merely a bit _distressed_." Before John had a chance to come to grips with the implications of that particular sentence and ask more demanding questions, he added as clarification, "What happened between you two is bothering him, I surmise."

That was not nearly enough clarification for John's peace of mind. "What—?" he managed to bite out before Mycroft cut into his question with ease, saying, "I am, of course, referring to the irregular occurrence of yesterday morning, just before your little excursion to the aid of Scotland Yard."

That sounded strange to John's ears; it was almost as if Mycroft didn't exactly know what had happened during said 'occurrence,' but wanted to act as though he did. "Don't you have hidden cameras in our flat or something?" he ventured, somewhat disbelievingly. One suspicion he'd always held while sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes was that his flatmate's brother was watching everything they did; John did, after all, have fairly strong grounds for this paranoia, Mycroft being Mycroft. However, he couldn't help but think of the time he'd been kidnapped off the street by that polished black vehicle and Mycroft had pressed him to spy on Sherlock. When he had learned that Sherlock's so-called archenemy was, in fact, his brother, he had assumed that Mycroft's theatrics had been meant to ascertain whether or not he would betray Sherlock for personal gain and that he had passed some sort of test by refusing. But, perhaps Mycroft would have been satisfied with either answer; it would be just like him to contrive a win-win scenario with John becoming either a loyal friend to his brother or a valuable spy to him.

Mycroft's answer to his question only served to back up this alternate explanation. "Oh, no, Dr. Watson, I assure you that Sherlock has found and dismantled all of my surveillance devices." A spy in his brother's household was doubtless just what he had always wanted.

"Then, what makes you think anything happened between us?" he asked, guardedly.

Mycroft's chortle was an immensely irritating one, breathy and devoid of genuine mirth. "Sherlock seems to be doing his utmost to elude you, doctor," he indicated patronizingly. He didn't wait for this new piece of information to register properly as he moved on to the question that he'd more than likely been sitting on for the entire conversation. "Before I direct you to his location, I feel I must ask you, does he have cause to be uneasy or is he simply being dramatic as usual? I am quite certain I have told you that he does so love to—"

"Where is he?" John pressed, tired of Mycroft's games.

"To the point as always. How admirable," drawled the elder Holmes brother, and the fact that he certainly meant it sardonically didn't matter to John at the moment; it only mattered that Mycroft answer the question, and the sooner the better. He cleared his throat – probably basking in John's frustration, the manipulative git. "He is, at present, across the street from the one place in London that you have actively avoided since your return from Afghanistan," he paused, delaying while John scrambled to think of any and all locations that might potentially fit that particular description – where had he actively avoided going, where would Sherlock and Mycroft have noticed that he had actively avoided going, what did 'actively avoid' _mean_ anyway, he wouldn't of his own free will venture into, say, the sewers even if someone paid him to do it, but would that be actively avoiding it or some-other-adverb-ly avoiding it, would Mycroft just bloody well _get on with it_ – until Mycroft went on to say with a smirk blatantly audible in his voice, "your sister Harriet Watson's residence. I do hope—"

John had the singular pleasure of ending the call and cutting off Mycroft for the second time in as many minutes; however, he certainly didn't dwell on that success, instead rushing downstairs and out the door, determined to catch a cab.

He'd quite forgotten that it was raining outside. It wasn't a heavy downpour, but it was the sort of deceptively light rain that could convince a person to say, 'Well, it's not raining _that_ much, and it's not _that_ far, so I think it'll be fine to walk,' and then make them numb to their bones and lamenting their unwise decision before they come near their destination. John swore under his breath, valiantly continuing his attempt to flag down a taxi whilst his hair began to adhere uncomfortably to his forehead and water began to seep through his jumper. He envied Sherlock's apparent ability to make cabs appear out of thin air with an outstretched hand and a bark of 'Taxi!' Granted, it didn't take too long for him to catch one, even without that ability – it could certainly have taken longer than the five minutes it had – but John was feeling impatient, causing him to be unwarrantedly short when he gave Harry's address, as well as the instruction to stop on the opposite side of the road, to the cabbie who really didn't deserve his ire. Still, the man didn't seem greatly bothered, as he probably dealt with people much ruder than John on a daily basis, and merely set off as directed.

Across the street from Harry's 'residence,' Mycroft had said. That didn't seem right. John didn't recall a restaurant or anything public in that area, just a mansion block – mansion blocks all down that street, actually. He supposed one might have been demolished or something since he'd last visited, which had been quite some time before he'd been deployed to Afghanistan. This supposition was, when the cab came to a halt in front of an intact building, proven entirely false. "Wait here," he muttered, stepping back into the rain for the moment it took to get through the door into dryness and warmth.

Even though Sherlock was supposedly here, John couldn't exactly knock on every door to find out which flat his flatmate was using to hide from him. How could Sherlock possibly be hiding from him here anyways? Did someone who just happened to live near John's sister just happen to owe Sherlock a favor? That was so ridiculously unlikely. He took the steps two at a time, stopping on each floor to briefly check each doorknob for any visible tampering. Fortunately, he didn't run into any of the tenants. Unfortunately, he reached the top floor with nothing to show for his efforts. Maybe Sherlock had been let in by someone after all, he thought as he turned to go back down the stairs.

There was a door he hadn't seen in his rushed inspection, positioned off to the side of the stairway; the sign on its wooden face declared it to lead to the roof. His feet pounded up the flight of stairs and he flung the door open, greeted by an unwelcome rush of cold air and water droplets as well as the very welcome sight of a dark-haired man in a distinctive greatcoat perched on the top of a metal drum in the middle of the flat, open rooftop.

Sherlock was staring up at the grey, weeping sky, his expression completely blank, as water dripped from everywhere on him that it could conceivably drip from. He didn't give any indication that he'd noticed John's presence – that much wasn't unusual at all, but it did sting, scraping at the still-festering wounds to his ego that Sherlock had already inflicted – and so John was given pause to stare for a few seconds, mildly appreciatively, at the motionless consulting detective. Sherlock's hair was only somewhat tamed by the weight of the water, and he wasn't wearing his scarf, putting his pale neck on display. He looked almost like a Greek sculpture, though John couldn't recall ever seeing one of those pallid marble statues – or any statues at all, for that matter – wearing a woollen greatcoat like Sherlock's. John wondered why in the world the consulting detective was sitting on a roof in the rain, but another far more pressing thought then dawned on him, pushing its predecessors to the very back of his mind. Sherlock had been gone before he'd woken up, so exactly how _long_ had he been sitting here, exposed to and assailed by the elements?

Well, however long it had been, it was no longer. John launched himself forward, crossing the distance between them in four strides and catching hold of a waterlogged coat sleeve – oh, gods, if that coat of his was soaked through, he must've been in the downpour for bloody hours – then dragged the man back into the shelter offered by the heartening existence of walls and a ceiling. Sherlock said absolutely nothing, not even making a sound to indicate surprise when John grasped his arm, and only slightly reluctantly followed the pull on his forelimb. If Sherlock was still avoiding John's gaze, John wouldn't know, since he was focusing on navigating them both back down the stairs to the ground floor so that they could return to Baker Street and also because he was – maybe, possibly, and if even slightly true, certainly secondarily to his first objective of getting them downstairs – avoiding Sherlock's own gaze, not knowing what he would see in them.

He wanted to let loose the tirade against Sherlock's complete lack of common sense that had started boiling up in him when he'd realized the man really did completely lack common sense – he'd been sitting there, in the rain, with no umbrella or anything, and whatever his reasons for avoiding John, he could've stayed nice and dry and just sat on the inside of the door at the top of the steps leading up to the roof, but did he, no-o-o, John was stuck with a genius flatmate who had absolutely no sense of self-preservation at all – but he was pretty sure neither of them were really supposed to be here, and he didn't think the residents would appreciate hearing him shout at Sherlock, so he held back, hoping his irritation was clear in his vicelike hold on Sherlock's arm and the set of his jaw and, oh, who was he kidding, this was Sherlock bloody Holmes, of course it was clear to him.

He shoved the front door open, stepping back out into the rain with Sherlock in tow. "You monumental idiot!" he furiously exclaimed as soon as they were clear of the building. He bundled Sherlock into the waiting cab and, once they were both inside, told the cabbie in as calm and collected a voice as he could manage – which was to say, a semi-strangled bark – "Back to 221B Baker Street, please." The cab drove out into the road, windscreen wipers clearing away vision-obscuring droplets. When they had gotten properly underway, John finally ground out, fists clenched, not turning to Sherlock as he did so, "How can you be so _stupid_ when you've got ten times the intellect of anyone else? If you don't want to see me, tell me and I'll keep out of sight! At least I've got the sense to stay out of the bleeding rain!" He stayed as far to the left in the seat as he could, pressing against the door; Sherlock didn't want to be in his presence, and John wanted to be considerate of that, even if it bothered him not to be as close to the detective as he usually was.

"But I do want to see you," Sherlock said, hardly audibly, and John's head jerked up to meet the man's ever-discerning eyes – no sign of drugs, he noted, at least not recently – but then those eyes turned downwards and away from John, eyelids shielding them from view, which sent an inexplicable feeling of bereavement through the doctor. He shook his head to try and clear it, looking away from Sherlock as well. At any rate, John really was not at all sure he had heard that last sentence correctly. In fact, he was positive that he didn't; Sherlock certainly did not want to see him – he supressed a pained grimace at that, though probably unsuccessfully – from what John could tell. Not since yesterday, at least. Oh. Right. He mentally kicked himself in the knee of his psychosomatically bad leg. Yesterday. That was the problem.

He turned back to Sherlock, who glanced quickly away – why was Sherlock looking at him, was there something on his face, no, probably not, if there was, Sherlock wouldn't hesitate to tell him as brusquely as possible, he was probably just deducing something or another – and John offered, conciliatorily, "Look, if you want, we can just forget about, um, about what happened yesterday morning. You can just delete it from your hard drive and we'll go back to our usual routine."

Sherlock had a peculiar expression on his face as he stared straight ahead and didn't respond. He was shivering, which was good, his body was trying to warm itself up. They needed to get the dripping wet clothes off of him, but the cabbie was likely to protest to having a man strip in his cab, so that would have to wait. In fact, John would need to dry off as well, though that wasn't as urgent; he hadn't been out in the rain for very long at all.

When they arrived at 221B, John thrust a few notes at the cabbie and hustled Sherlock inside and up the stairs, leaving a trail of water in their wake, which Mrs. Hudson would not be remotely pleased about. Methodically, John unbuttoned and pulled off Sherlock's coat, then left the taller man to take off his own shirt, instead heading into Sherlock's room to search for something warm for him to wear. He found undergarments and some cotton trousers, but no particularly warm-looking shirts, so he headed to his own room to fetch the largest jumper he owned, a bright red one that might just be long enough to accommodate Sherlock where it was far too bulky on John's smaller frame.

He returned to the living room, the dry clothes he'd procured in hand, and froze in the doorway, mouth half-open to say something that John had by then forgotten. Sherlock was standing by the window and seemed lost in thought as he languidly shrugged off his shirt, dropping it to the ground and exposing the sharp, bony angles of his back. He was too thin by far, emaciated even, but in a way that would probably be called 'lean' instead. Shirtless, he resembled a marble statue even more than he had earlier on the rooftop – pale, striking, ethereal. After a moment of John ogling Sherlock and Sherlock not noticing, the detective shook his head, scattering water from his inky curls in every direction, but the motion seemed to knock him off-balance – he must have started coming down with something – and he stumbled backwards with a sharp intake of breath.

John was there in an instant, grabbing hold of Sherlock and steadying him. The clothes that were in his arms had been dropped to the floor; John resolved to pick them up again later, when he'd gotten Sherlock to his room, a feat that was much easier said than done. Sherlock certainly didn't make it easy for him, leaning his full weight on the smaller man and breathing down his neck quite distractingly, but John ultimately managed to lead Sherlock through the flat and manoeuvre them both through Sherlock's bedroom door. He sat Sherlock down on an uncluttered section of the bed – the man still seemed pensive, not paying much attention to what John was doing – and proceeded to clear loose papers and miscellaneous objects from the rest of it until the surface appeared fit for its intended purpose rather than for use as a dysfunctional filing system. Leaving the room for a moment to pick up those clothes, he thought to grab a towel and brought everything back to Sherlock, who hadn't moved an inch. Sighing, he ran the towel through Sherlock's hair, attempting to dry it. "Put these on," he instructed when he was grudgingly satisfied with the reduced dampness, indicating the pile of clothing he'd set aside for the man. He left to give Sherlock some privacy, as well as to change from his own wet clothes into something drier and more comfortable.

When John returned, Sherlock had finished changing – John's jumper was a bit too small on him, well, the sleeves were too short at least, but it would serve its purpose – but he hadn't bothered to actually get into bed to warm himself up. Heaving a long-suffering sigh, John pulled back the duvet, which had several burn marks on it, unsurprisingly, and settled Sherlock in. The consulting detective, staring off into the distance, still seemed oddly contemplative; about what, John had no idea.

He opened his mouth to say something, but he wasn't sure what. Perhaps another reprimand, or maybe a mandate that he go to sleep, but whatever he was about to say, Sherlock precluded him with a soft, "I can't delete it."

Delete what? John's brow furrowed in confusion before he realized what the detective was talking about; he'd almost forgotten his earlier offer, and to be fair, it had been quite a delayed response and he'd stopped expecting an answer. Had Sherlock been trying to delete the kiss – and it had been a kiss, even if John hadn't until then referred to it as such even in his own mind, for very good reason, as the thought of the word in relation to Sherlock sent a strange flush of heat through him – this entire time? John ran through the implications of what Sherlock had said. They wouldn't be able to go back to their usual routine. Sherlock would continue to avoid him like the plague. The thought actually hurt. "Should I pack, then?" he asked, mouth dry. It would probably be best if they parted ways, if that was how things stood.

Sherlock's jaw clenched and he cast his gaze downwards to stare at his hands.

"I'll have to find somewhere else to stay first," John started to babble, thoughts whirling around his skull dizzyingly. "I'll keep out of your way until then. Except for checking on you, of course. Unless you want me to call in another doctor."

Sherlock made a strangled noise at that, snapping his head up to face John. His unwavering scrutiny struck John speechless for a moment, and he had to swallow and focus his regard away from those impenetrable eyes to a point just below them before stating as firmly as was possible, "You need medical attention, and it's either me or someone else. You neglect your health far too much on your own, so I can't just leave you to your own devices."

"I don't need another doctor," Sherlock grumbled stubbornly.

"Fine," John acquiesced, "I'm staying until you're healthy, then. Or as close to it as you ever are. I'll check on you periodically. Just," he paused, adopting his most commanding voice, the one that poured skilled doctor and seasoned soldier into the same pot, stirred them together, and boiled until the mixture was pure do-as-you-are-told, "stay here, don't move, sleep." He doubted that the last one would be obeyed, but he could try.

Worryingly, as he left the room, he spotted an odd, calculating look on Sherlock's face.

When he returned in about thirty minutes with tea and some hot food, Sherlock was sitting by the open window, eyes closed and face tilted up towards the rain. "What the hell are you doing, Sherlock?" John asked incredulously, setting the tray of victuals on the first semi-orderly flat surface he found in the room, before he pulled Sherlock away from the window and shut it firmly.

"Neglecting my health," Sherlock replied, coolly.

"And why would you be doing that?"

Sherlock didn't deign to respond, turning away from John.

John huffed indignantly. "You know, you're not exactly convincing me that I can leave you alone."

"I—" Sherlock started, rounding on the doctor in a fit of pique, but he cut himself off, his eyes widening as they often did when he discovered a vital clue. "You're saying that as though I want you to leave."

John raised his eyebrows and answered drily, "Don't you?"

"No, you want to leave!" proclaimed Sherlock, pointing a long, patrician index finger at John.

Sherlock's riposte puzzled John, who could only say, "What?"

Waving his hands around, Sherlock burst out, "Not only am I a terrible flatmate and a dangerous man to be around, yesterday I invaded your personal space without warning and precluded any attempt by you to ask my reasoning behind it. When you offered to forget the incident and I found that I could not, you promptly declared your intention to move out." He glared at John pointedly. "Correct?"

John blinked, somewhat cautiously. "Well, that's true, but—"

Sherlock went on, in full deduction mode, starting to pace around the room. A part of John's mind that wasn't utterly transfixed by Sherlock's speech remembered Sherlock's earlier unsteadiness and ensured he would be ready to catch the man should he stumble. "So, you don't want to move out, but you do intend to. You feel you have to for some reason. If the reason is not your own wish to do so, it must be because, as evidenced earlier, you are under the impression that I want you to leave, a conclusion probably derived from your conversation with Mycroft and my escapade in the rain."

"How did you know I—"

"Please, John. The only way you would have thought of going anywhere near Harry's to find me is if you had asked Mycroft. So, what would Mycroft have told you? He doesn't have any bugs in the flat, I've made sure of that, but he will have figured out from my being in a place I would never expect you to look that something had happened and I was avoiding you. Once you'd found me, you would have been thinking about the reasons for my evasion. Naturally, yesterday would have come to mind, and so you offered to forget about it. However, you came to entirely the wrong conclusion about my motives." He stopped speaking, as though everything that needed to be said had been.

"Motives?" John prompted the consulting detective to continue. "What motives?"

Sherlock remained silent, his body language withdrawn. He tensed as John approached.

"Sherlock... You know I'm always impressed by your fantastic deductions, but sometimes things don't have to be so complicated." John steered Sherlock to the bed and made him sit down, pulling a blanket over his shoulders. He sat down next to Sherlock, looked into his eyes and asked, "Sherlock, why did you kiss me?"

Sherlock swallowed. His mouth opened to speak, but he clamped it shut.

"Was it an experiment?" John grimaced slightly from suggesting that, and felt a sort of sharp pain in his chest. He was inordinately relieved when Sherlock deliberately shook his head.

"Then, why?" John attempted to use some of what meagre leverage he had. "I promise that nothing you say will convince me to leave unless you want me to."

There was a long pause, and John had begun to despair of getting an answer when he heard Sherlock mumble, "I don't know."

"Sorry?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock exploded, his frustration absolutely clear in his voice and his expression, "The great Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world, _doesn't know!_ It just happened before I even thought that it might. And no matter how much I think about it, I can't figure out _why_ it happened! It just did! _Happy?_ Going to scoff about my _spectacular_ ignorance some more? _Hm?_ "

John's mouth had fallen slightly ajar during that display; he closed his mouth, then opened it again and ran his tongue over his bottom lip before responding with disbelief, "You _are_ spectacularly ignorant about some things."

"Ha! See! I _knew_ you'd say that! That's why I steered clear of this completely ridiculous, useless conversation. I _knew_ —"

John grabbed him by the jumper and pulled him into a clumsy, open-mouthed kiss. Sherlock, after getting over the initial shock, threw himself into it with vigour, attempting to hold John closer than was, strictly speaking, physically possible, and tried desperately to follow John's mouth when he finally pulled away. "You are an idiot," John declared, flushed and breathless, a grin encompassing his entire face.

"I am an idiot," Sherlock agreed, intensely raking his eyes over every part of John's body, as though he couldn't actually believe that what he was seeing was real but wanted to commit it to memory regardless.

John laughed, shaking his head lightly. "You really talk too much sometimes, you know."

"So do you." Sherlock pressed himself forward suddenly, delving deeper into John's mouth than he had before, fastidiously working to elicit from John every kind of fascinating sound that he could.

It wasn't long before Sherlock's movements started getting sluggish from exhaustion, and he fell comfortably asleep against John, who gingerly situated him back into bed. He ran his hand through Sherlock's curls and mused over the past two days as he memorized Sherlock's sleeping form. He momentarily considered returning to his own room to sleep off his own fatigue, but couldn't bring himself to leave. Sherlock wouldn't mind sharing a bed, if his earlier enthusiasm was anything to go by, and, medically speaking, shared body heat would probably do wonders for them both after being out in the rain like that.

Carefully, John slipped into Sherlock's bed, wrapping his arms around the serene consulting detective before he drifted off to sleep himself, nuzzling into the graceful collarbone of his – flatmate, friend, partner, lover, none of those really encompassed what Sherlock was to John, the closest he could come to an adequate description was – his Sherlock.

The two slumbered on, perfectly contented now that the misunderstandings and uncertainties had been summarily cleared away.

Maybe now John could get Sherlock to clean out the microwave.


End file.
